


Counting Backwards

by TheArchaeologist



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Good Wife Dolores, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Violence, Number Five | The Boy Has Issues, Number Five | The Boy Needs A Hug, Number Five | The Boy-centric, Swearing, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 08:25:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19808473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArchaeologist/pseuds/TheArchaeologist
Summary: From The Commission and his change of appearance, to the people who just attacked them, Five and Dolores have a lot to catch up on. After all, the last time they saw each other was in the apocalypse.





	Counting Backwards

“Five.” Dolores says the moment he unzips the bag, and he blinks at her.

“What?”

“That was rude.”

“No, it wasn’t.” Five defends, carefully picking Dolores up and setting her down on his desk chair where he is certain she will not fall. “They were just being…” Waving a hand absently, Five tries to select the correct word from the air. Finally, he settles on, “Difficult.”

Dolores huffs. “You were being rude, and you know it.” As he shoves the stolen bag to one side at the foot of his bed, she asks, “So, what’s wrong?”

“Why would you be under the impress-”

Dolores cuts him off with that tone of hers, the one that always makes him pause and listen. “Five. You look like the first time we met, told me it had been a rough couple of days, and then stuffed me in a bag while we were shot at by two people in masks. I _know_ you, Five. I’ve known you for a long time. Tell me.”

Chewing on his tongue, Five glances away, his arms crossing defensively over his chest. The movement is pointless, because Five has never been able to hide from Dolores. It is as she says, she knows him, understands Five more intimately than anyone else in the world. He has never been able to keep anything from her for more than a few minutes, and ultimately, he never really would.

Out of everyone in the world, Five trusts Dolores the most.

“I’m sorry I left you.” The shame of it forces his eyes away, and Five’s hands grab at his upper arms as he feels her caring scrutiny turn upon him. His right arm twinges, heat smudging under the material of the shirt, and he buries his flinch under, “I shouldn’t have left you in the apocalypse. That was cruel.”

“I was the one who told you to go, Five.”

“I know, but it was inconsiderate of me anyway. You didn’t tell me to abandon you.”

Which is true, and something Five has been contemplating for a long time. He had turned to Dolores, The Handler standing just the other side of the crumpled remains of the library, her hand hovering in the air, and before he could even ask Dolores was urging him to go, to leave the apocalypse, to take the opportunity and use it to his advantage. 

So, Five did, and exactly three seconds after shaking on it realised he had left her to sit alone in their makeshift home for the rest of eternity.

The way Dolores hums, a soft melodic sound in the back of her throat, informs Five that she is not pleased or settled with his reasoning. This noise he has heard many times, usually when he was being pig-headed, when the frustration would build to levels which could not be dammed.

“What happened when you left?”

Five unintentionally bristles at the question, as innocent and reasonable as it is. Sucking in a breath, Five backs up, sitting down on the end of his bed and leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his hands cupped together. 

He gulps. “Do you remember what that woman, That Handler, said, when she came to pick me up?”

“I do.” Dolores confirms. “Corrections throughout time and space.”

“Well, exactly that.” His mouth feels dry, thick, like two days in the end of times without water. Five’s teeth bite at his lip, a terrible, gruesome sensation of slugs slipping in-between his inner organs.

“Take your time.” Dolores, kind, patient Dolores says, and it makes Five flinch.

She is naïve. She is smart and funny and naïve, because she does not know. She does not understand what Five is, what he has become simply to save the world. Dolores was not there, not when he was snuffing out lives like they were candles, still burning brightly with life and with plenty more wax to offer.

How can he explain to her that in order to save humanity, to save her, he had to kill a portion of it?

There are no secrets between them, this is the way it has always been.

“I’ll be right back.” He croaks, jumping from the bedroom to Dad’s bar.

It is, thankfully, silent in the living room, and without much thought Five scoops up an armful of bottles from one of the shelves, not particularly caring what he ends up with. Unlike some people, Five is not picky when it comes to alcohol. By now he has sampled it all, the good and the bad, and his taste buds have long been numbed to the blazing liquid fire.

At least, his old body had, but this is as good an opportunity as any to baptise the new one.

“Five.” Dolores scolds as he reappears. “Is that really necessary? When you’re like this, no less?”

“Dutch courage.” He grins, the expression feeling forced and strained on his face. He pops open the first bottle and brings it to his lips. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” Dolores replies, because she always does. 

After a few deep mouthfuls, ones that scratch the inside of his throat, Five hears her sigh deeply, and lowers the bottle and sits back down on the end of the bed, taking up his previous position leaning forward.

“So.” He says blankly, letting the bottle hang between his knees. He swirls the liquid inside.

“So.” Dolores echoes expectantly. “The Handler.”

“Yes, The Handler. She’s a bitch.”

This prompts a surprised laugh from Dolores, and he chuckles at her, letting the sound waft over him. Making Dolores laugh is a mix of surprisingly easy and strangely hard, and it has taken Five years to work out the correct tightrope to wander across to achieve it.

“I got that impression when we first met her.” Dolores says, humour still in her voice.

“Well, I’ve always trusted your gut.”

“As you should.” She nods. “So, apart from the startling realisation that she is a bitch, what else happened?”

Five takes another drink, a long, deep gulp that he developed in the apocalypse when he was about seventeen, when the full impact that Five had _the rest of his life ahead of him stuck in Hell_ finally began to hit home.

Wiping his mouth on the back of his blazer sleeve, Five clears his throat. “I…I did as she said. I was tasked to solve _corrections_.”

“What are those, exactly?”

“They are the decisions mankind makes.” Five explains blandly, his tone the essence of neutral. “Good or bad, right or wrong, all of which makes up the events of history. Someone makes the right decision, and history happens as it should. Someone doesn’t…”

“And you correct them.” Dolores finishes, and the light has left her voice now. She sounds level, as if she is trying to think ahead and solve an unknown puzzle. Dolores has always been smart. It will not take her long to connect the dots and draw the natural conclusions.

“We do.” He nods, not meeting her eyes. “Or, well, I do. Did. People in management would make calls, and then send orders down to me.”

Dolores is quiet, the type that tells Five there is something heavy on her mind, and he uses the moment to drink again. Nearly half the bottle has vanished before she finally decides to break the silence between them. Outside, the nightlife rattles on.

“How did you correct them, Five?” She asks, as soft as anything, like a mother wondering how their child bumped their knee. It holds patience, control, a query to which the answer has already been discovered.

“Whatever means necessary.” Five tells the floor, his jaw feeling like the hinges between it and his skull have become rusty and broken. He works it, and up-down motion that makes the bone crack.

There is another pause, and then Dolores prods gently, “You killed them?”

“Yes.”

He misses what she says next because he brings the bottle to his lips again, and the liquid sloshes in a way that fills his ears with noise. Draining it, Five wipes his mouth again and glances at her.

“Pardon?”

“I asked if you had a code?”

“No code.” Five shakes his head, the nail of his index finger tapping against the now empty glass bottle. If there is a tune then Five does not know it. “You simply take out anyone who messed with the timeline, knowingly or not.”

The bin Five used throughout his childhood sits beside his desk, crumpled notes of aging paper and dust filling the plastic bag lining. Five eyes it warily. If he dumps his used bottles in there, he is bound to be questioned by his siblings, or at the very least Mom or Pogo, all of whom will in no doubt gripe at him for _underage drinking_ and any other behaviours they deem unsightly or unbecoming. 

Five has too much to do this week other than sit down and listen to lectures by people who can barely be in the same room without snapping harsh remarks at one another. They would be a nuisance, distracting him from his main goal, and the weight of the world sits too heavily on his shoulders for Five to allow such time wasting to take place.

Instead of chucking the bottle into the bin, Five leans across the bed and drags the stolen bag closer, tossing it in there out of sight.

“I’m sorry.” Dolores says, and Five jumps.

“You’re sorry?”

“That shouldn’t have happened to you.”

Five blanks, staring at her as if she has grown a second head. “Shouldn’t have…It shouldn’t have _happened_ to the people I _killed_. I’m not the victim here-”

“But you are.” Dolores argues, firm. “They dragged you out of the apocalypse, Five, knowing your only other option was to stay there until you died. They _used_ -”

“I _had_ other options, Dolores, I can _time travel_. I had another option sitting there the entire time. I could have very easily have said no but I didn’t.”

There is a sadness to her voice now, one that makes Five sneer and uncap another bottle. “Five, I understand you were figuring it out, I _realise_ that, but after forty-five years, you and I both know you were no closer to cracking those equations as you were when you first arrived. Look at you now, Five, even now you were off.”

“Thanks for reminding me.” Five grits, and this new bottle is stronger than the last, scorching his tongue.

Dolores sighs, telling Five that she is backing off but displeased about it, and a small part of him squirms at making her feel that way. He does not intend to be a prick towards her, a grouchy old bastard who has seen too much and spilled too much, but drink has always made Five’s nasty streak vicious, and there is a whirlpool of thoughts spinning his head faster than he can fully comprehend.

“Those people who shot at us.” Dolores says, moving the subject along stiffly. “They worked for The Handler as well?”

“The Handler, The Commission, the same general plethora of people, yes.”

“And they were shooting at you because…”

Five speaks against the rim of the bottle. “Because I broke my contract. I left an unfinished job, and jumped back here, yesterday, in fact. They’re not happy.”

“Yes, I could tell by the guns.”

“Sorry you had to get caught up with that.” Five grimaces. “I’m not sure how they found me there, but if I’d known I wouldn’t have led them to you.”

Dolores tuts, but the tension from before has dissolved to something smoother. “You can’t exactly help that. I’m fine, barely even battered.”

“My point still stands, though.” 

“What about you?”

“What about me?” He adds another empty bottle to the bag, and slowly grabs another. 

“Are you ok? You were shaking for a while there, and they _were_ firing at you.”

“I’m fine, Dolores, don’t worry-”

“This is coming from the same person who told me not to worry about a broken leg.” Dolores cuts in, and although Five is not looking at her, he can practically hear her raised eyebrow. “ _And_ the same person who tried to sweat out a fever instead of taking antibiotics, not forgetting the time with the car-”

“ _Don't_ bring up the time with the car.” Five growls, his tongue feeling too large and brain just a touch too fuzzy. He drinks the sensation away.

“If your point still stands, Five, then so does mine.” Her tone leaves no room for argument. “So, are you hurt?”

He shrugs awkwardly, his skin protesting when the material stuck to the drying blood shifts and pulls. In response Dolores makes a noise, making Five’s insides instinctively shrink, and he licks at his lips, tasting the sharp twangs of alcohol against his baby-smooth mouth.

Five shall have to wait a good few years before he is able to regrow his beard again.

“Just a scratch.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It _is_ , Dolores, it’s nothing to worry about.”

“ _Five_.”

“Look, just…” He waves a hand absently, and flops over backwards so he is sprawled on his bed, gazing up at the ceiling with several delayed blinks. His legs dangle off the end, his shoes not quite reaching the ground as they do. 

It is humiliating. 

Five is a killer, a murderer, he has snuck into houses while people sleep, and stuffed out honest, law-abiding lives for the sake of some _greater good_ believed and worshipped by underpaid workers stuck in an office from nine to five. He is the best of the best, with a track record matched by none and a skillset that holds him miles above everyone else.

Here he is, in schoolboy shorts and socks, wearing a uniform for an academy that no longer exists in a world that will be burned to dust in a matter of days.

“I think I’m drunk.” Five informs Dolores, to which she makes a fretting noise.

“You are, Five. This body isn’t like you old one, it can’t handle the same amounts it used to. Also, you’re _hurt_. Please tell me where, I’m worried.”

“Just the arm.” He mumbles, watching the spots of his ceiling spin like a ring of stars. He makes an awkward gesture towards it, finishing off the bottle and dumping it into the bag without looking. It is a miracle Five does not choke on the mouthfuls.

“How bad is it?”

“Barely a graze.” Five is drifting, he can feel it. He can also feel the eyeball in his pocket, the one that belongs to the person who will destroy the world, the one which has yet to be made because of course it has not. 

Five’s life is never easy, why would the universe grant him this?

“Five?” Dolores calls quietly. “You still with me?”

He hums, squeezing his eyes shut against the swirling as he lays on the bed, the firm comfort of the mattress a strange sensation after so many years on gravel and dirt or lumpy motel offerings.

Dolores sighs, a tired noise that speaks of unease and unanswered questions, but also an understanding that has always been there since the first time they met. Unlike everyone else on this twirling rock they call a planet, she knows when to push his buttons, and equally when to let him be.

The taste of alcohol still lingers on his tongue.

“Goodnight, Five.”

**Author's Note:**

> So I noticed that Five doesn’t stitch his arm up after Grimbel Brothers until the following morning, and that when he pulls Dolores out the bag in the van, it contains bottles that wouldn’t have been there before (considering he stole it from the store, and I highly doubt that shops just keep random used objects in the stuff they’re selling).
> 
> This is the result.
> 
> [Tumblr](https://ancientstone.tumblr.com/)


End file.
